The Rogue's Surrender (The Nelson's Tea Series Book 3) (24 page)

Mercy had no way of knowing what was happening outside the study doors, but he knew she was listening. He prayed Percy’s condition wouldn’t come as a complete shock, but he had no way to warn her. Shaking his head, Garrick allowed the cards to fall where they might. He moved forward with Percy, carrying the majority of the duke’s weight.

“Wait!” A staccato of footsteps sounded above stairs, making them all stop in their tracks.

A vision of white glided down the staircase with urgent purpose.

Constance.

“I heard voices.” The duchess reached the first floor in her bare feet and rushed to Percy’s side, dressed in a night robe. “Percy! Dear God in heaven!” She glanced at Simon. “What happened, Uncle?”

She placed her hand on her husband’s chin and lifted his face. “Percy?” Unshed tears moistened her searching eyes. “Percy, what have you done
this
time?”

The duke roused to the sound of his wife’s voice. “A fetching sight you are, my gel. Take me… to bed.”

“Bed?” A blush colored Constance’s cheeks. She lowered her hand, frowning. “That
is
certainly where you belong, I should say, husband. Not cavorting God knows where in the dead of night.”

Constance harrumphed, but said nothing more as she rolled her delicate robe sleeves to her elbows and paid no heed to the blood staining her fingers.

Percy’s blood.

She didn’t faint like a normal
bon ton
wife. Rather, she appeared angry, a woman resigned, one who’d seen injuries like these countless times before. She bent to rip the hem of her own gown then tied strips of fabric around the gashes on Percy’s thighs.

How often had Constance been forced into the role of nursemaid? How many nightgowns had she ruined during their marriage?

“Move… now,” she ordered no one in particular. “Quickly.”

A shadow took shape beyond the double-paned glass doors to the study. Garrick made no effort to prevent Mercy’s discovery. Admitting his knowledge of her whereabouts in such an indelicate situation would draw suspicions of guilt and open him up to a litany of questions none of them had time for.

Mercy opened the glass-paned study doors. “What an assembly,” she said, her shawl fixed about her person to cover the blood from Garrick’s wound. “I seek a book to help me relax and the world gets turned upside down. What has happened?”

Constance stepped aside, wiping an errant tear. “Percy is—”

“
Dios mio!
Is that blood on your gown, Constance?”
Mercy’s attention narrowed on Percy. She paled suddenly then crossed her chest, raising the silver cross hanging around her neck to her lips. She pointed to the marble floor. “
Por favor
, tell me
this
is not
my
fault.”

Every eye angled to the floor where blood pooled beneath Percy’s feet. “Percy is injured.” Constance turned to her uncle. “Send for the doctor… quickly!”

Simon turned to Jeffers. “Tell Russell it’s urgent, that he’s needed right away.”

“I sent for Doctor Russell as a precaution when His Grace had not returned at a decent hour,” Jeffers said. “Unfortunately, I’ve received word he’s out on call.”

“Gone?” Constance touched Jeffers’s arm, breaching employer/servant protocol. “What will we do? Did anyone tell you when he’d be back?”

Jeffers shook his head. “The message stated that Russell would be sent here as soon as he returned.”

Simon scowled. “Commendable work, Jeffers. You’ve proven your worth once again. Thank you. But that may not be soon enough.”

“Everything is in readiness.” Jeffers bowed his head slightly then focused his attention on Percy. “We must get His Grace to the cradle right away.”

“Cradle?” Mercy’s eyes widened. “The duke is
not
a child.”

Constance blanched. “No, but he certainly acts like one.”

“
No entiendo
.”

“It isn’t necessary for you to understand.” Garrick grunted then led Percy to the study doorway. “Percy made his choice.”

Percy leaned sideways then slid almost to his knees, his size and weight catching Garrick off-balance. He moaned loudly.

Simon reacted quickly. He bolted to Percy’s other side and bolstered the duke with his shoulder.

“I
can
do this,” Percy said, mustering some dignity, trying to shove both of them off.

“Be still.” Something in Simon’s voice grated, triggering Percy’s alarm. The duke froze. “Let
me
help
you
for once, Percy.”

“This is my fault,” Mercy said, her voice fading to a whisper. “Your doctor will not arrive in time, and I cannot allow His Grace to suffer because of me. Allow me to tend his wounds.”

“You?” Jeffers looked incredulous.

“
Sí
.” Mercy ignored Jeffers’s dubious expression. “I have seen wounds like this before.”

Jeffers looked to Constance for approval. At Constance’s nod, the butler broke into action. He waved his hand at Garrick and Simon, ably guiding them through the study doors, looking back only once to see whether or not the two men half-carrying, half-dragging Percy were following.

“Hurry, Jeffers.” An authoritarian edge Garrick had never heard before intensified Constance’s voice. “Come, Mercy.” She held her hand out to her cousin. “My husband needs you.”

They trampled the Turkish carpet, hurrying past a leather high-backed chair and reached a wall-length bookcase with latticed-panes, filled with books.

Jeffers opened one glass panel, selected the fourth book on the third shelf, pushed the book back towards the wall, and then jerked it out.

Click.

He closed the latticed-glass and stepped back as stone scraped against stone and the entire section of first-edition literary works opened before them revealing a dark tunnel lit by brass candelabras, one on each side.

Jeffers turned to face them. “I took the liberty of setting up the room before you arrived.”

“A splendid idea, Jeffers,” Constance supplied.

The movement of a built-in bookcase in a ducal residence didn’t give Garrick pause. He’d seen architectural wonders such as this in Simon and Gillian’s Bolton Street townhouse. And he’d anticipated Percy would install several for his family’s safety, especially after Lord Burton had kidnapped Constance.

Jeffers extended his hand. “This way, if you please.”

Mercy grabbed Constance’s hand and they moved forward together, dark and light contrasts no one would be able to guess were blood relations. Mercy’s olive skin, her distinct accent and independent ways contrasted sharply to the refined manners, speech, and subtlety of the petite, ivory-skinned duchess.

“He’s losing too much blood,” Gillian urged from behind.

Garrick’s heartbeat quickened. Gillian’s voice, his lifeline for the past year, concealed none of her dread. Her soothing assurances had led him out of the abyss. She was a force to be reckoned with, a woman born in the wrong social class, whose artistry, training, and chameleon-like talents benefited Nelson’s Tea in ways he still couldn’t fathom. She’d refused to give up on Garrick long after he had given up on himself. And she’d give her last breath to see them all well and happily settled. Was it any wonder she doted over Percy now?

“Quickly,” Gillian ordered as they entered the tunnel. “Watch his head.”

“Is it spinning?” Percy mumbled.

Constance harrumphed and glanced back over her shoulder. “You’ll lose more than your head, if you leave Oliver fatherless.”

“Oliver.” Percy’s voice faded as his head sagged again.

Garrick and Simon struggled to balance the brunt of Percy’s weight.

A figure darted before them, body silhouetted by shadow in the flickering light. Constance turned to Mercy. “We are equally fortunate that you are here with us, cousin. Can you help my husband?”

Mercy paled as she took in the small room. For a moment, Garrick saw the vulnerable woman he’d spied dangling off the side of his ship — eyes fearful and wide — as if Murray still held sway over her life.

Percy collapsed, setting everyone into motion.

Garrick and Simon struggled to keep Percy from slipping to the floor.

Mercy took control. “Put him on the table. We don’t have a moment to lose.”

“Listen to the
señorita
.” Gillian rounded on Garrick and Simon as they shuffled forward with their heavy load. “I’ve seen that look before. She has the touch.”

“The touch?” Garrick was tempted to agree, but his meandering thoughts did not venture along the same path as Gillian’s.

Constance leaned close, reaching out to take her husband’s hand. “Lay him down gently.”

Garrick struggled to do as she requested, lowering Percy’s torso to the table. He lifted Percy’s legs, ignoring the duke’s gut-wrenching moan as they extended his abused body across the table’s length.

Percy’s size dwarfed the rugged oak. His arm dangled over one side of the table as Garrick and Simon stepped back, giving Mercy and Jeffers much-needed room to tend his wounds. A miracle was what they needed. Constance grabbed Percy’s arm and laid his hand gently on his chest.

Mercy moved about the table. “I will need hot water, fresh linen, herbs—”

“What type of herbs?” Jeffers asked.

“Tetter Berries, Adder’s Tongue, Dead Nettle, Wood Betony, and Bird’s Foot. Anything that can be made into a poultice. I’ll also need brandy, rope, needle and thread.” She turned back to Garrick and Simon. “Remove his cloak.”

“Where,” Simon asked, “did you learn to do this?”

Mercy didn’t look away from Percy’s wounds as she answered, “My mother and I received instruction from a local gypsy woman, an ornery sort with no love for the French. Though she carried a healthy knowledge of herbs and local plants,
Señora
Perez bore a single-minded persistence to her credit.”

“A gypsy.” Gillian cast a wary glance down the hallway. “I have always wanted to know more about gypsies. Esmeralda was one, wasn’t she?”

“In an earlier occupation,” Mercy continued, hoping to ease their frayed nerves.

“Do as she says.” Constance placed her hand on Percy’s forehead. “He’s turning feverish.”

When Percy’s cloak was removed, everyone but Mercy stood back.

Gillian gasped and borrowed the table for support as if she might faint.

“Check on the baroness,” Mercy instructed Simon. Blood coated Percy’s torso and legs. Did Gillian react to Percy’s wounds or was something else entirely the matter? Mercy didn’t ask anything more as she turned to Jeffers. “An infusion of cinquefoil will help relieve Percy’s fever.”

Jeffers clanked around the apothecary bottles. “We have that as well.”

Nothing Garrick had experienced before had prepared him for
this
. And he’d seen his fill of gore. Cannon blast injuries, impalement by shards of wood, broken limbs with exposed bone, these were sights typically relegated to adventures at sea. But they weren’t at sea. They were in the city, a place where sword fights were not the norm.

Was Percy in danger from his injuries?
If so, I’d rather be on the receiving end of a thirsty blade than be forced to stand by and watch a friend die.

“Do something!” Bile rose in Garrick’s throat. Panic drummed to life with a deafening power inside his head. He fisted his hands, swallowing back the urge to vent his rage, to hunt down the men that did this and drive their bodies into the ground on spikes.

And yet what good would that do Percy now? If he’d gotten Simon and Gillian here alive, the men responsible for this must already be dead.

A putrid metallic stench filled the air.

Blood. Plenty of it. Endless pain. Blood-curdling screams. His own wretched cries. Doubts he’d live to see another sunrise. Rats drawn to the pungent smell, hungry, curious, crawling… screeching…

“Strip off his shirt.” Mercy’s voice cracked like the cat-o-nine tails that Captain Frink had used on Percy’s back on board the
Striker
.

Gillian stared at the motionless people around her. “Do what she says.”

Jeffers devotion to Percy was clear. “I know what I’m capable of doing, but we have no way of knowing if the
señorita
has been trained for this.”

“We have her word.” Gillian lifted the instruments Mercy had collected from her arms and laid them on the table. “We are the only ones capable of saving Percy’s life right now.”

Simon balked. “Gillian, a spy is many things but I doubt
Señorita
Vasquez has done anything this stomach-turning before.”

“
Sí
.” Mercy spoke calmly, her voice carrying a sickening dread as she moved her hands over Percy’s body, inspecting the damage. “Yes, I have. Remove His Grace’s bloody boots then test the circulation in his legs.”

Determined to be helpful, Gillian instantly obeyed, moving to Percy’s feet. She removed Percy’s boots, cut away his bloody stockings, and examined his toes. “How long?”